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Valentine’s weekend. Thoughts of moon. And June. Also cash. The four-letter word rarely considered anymore is love.

In Hollywood, a second anniversary already considers you an old married couple. Here’s today’s passion movie star-style:

They meet. Maybe in a bar, over the Internet, walking a cat, maybe they’re leftovers from someone else’s two marriages ago. Accustomed to three-minute takes, they’re into heavy-duty romance in an hour.

Comes an argument. A breakup. Magazine stories. She’s with someone else. He’s with whoever’s, pardon the expression, handy. Following their idols Rihanna and Chris whatshisname, they’re back together. Closer than Obama and a teleprompter. It’s move-in-together time. Proposal. Bridal shower. Engagement. Jeweler who for publicity gives discounts. A ring. An announcement. A double-page news spread.

And baby makes three. Everyone outside a nursing home parades a baby. Can’t make one — buy one. If that helps nail a TV sit-down, they get another baby. Can’t buy one — rent one. Give it an interesting name like Grilch or Juicenberry.

To appear socially conscious and philanthropic — even if your housekeeper’s an alien, you cheat on taxes and haven’t spoken to your mother in six years — one must glom onto a charity. Like weddingless educationless fatherless moneyless jobless husbandless pregnant females who have four other children. Always good for a line in a gossip column.

The publicity’s working, but the career’s not. The dude’s getting turned down even for walk-ons in Schwarzenegger movies. Your relationship’s going south. Viagra may turn him on, but you won’t. Besides, he wants you to perform other four-letter words. Like cook. Dust.

Stories leak about the breakup. In-laws speak out. Friends talk to the morning television anchors. Then you begin dating even Britney’s rejects. Comes the divvying up. Who gets custody of the scrapbooks? Next the trying together again. Then fights. Lawyers. Divorces.

Hey, an ex-beau named Bert dumped Kelly Osbourne on Valentine’s Day. On the phone, yet.

Birds do it, bees do it, he’s and he’s and she’s and she’s do it, but, kiddies, do you know who Saint Valentine was? Mother will tell you. When Christianity became Rome’s official religion, the church marked the festivity with February 14’s martyrdom of Saint Valentine. Priest Valentine wed lovers secretly when Emperor Claudius II ordered men not to marry so they’d stay free for his battlefield.

Anyway, today everybody memorializes the old saint with flowers and chocolates.

Henry Winkler: “I’ve never licked chocolate off a naked woman’s body, but I’m certainly open to the suggestion.”

Alicia Silverstone: “European chocolates are better than sex.” This at least I can understand.

A cheaper gift is just a smooch:

Jessica Alba’s first kiss was age 10. So he’d pick her for his baseball team.

Helena Bonham Carter: “Woody Allen’s kissing is awful. Upfront he says no exchange of liquid permitted. No tongue encounter. He makes no effort at all. His mouth is a no-go area. Like what it must’ve been to kiss the Berlin Wall.”

Carmen Electra’s lovey name for Dennis Rodman was “Choo-Choo.” Who knows why? Maybe it’s to do with a nice ride, a well-oiled engine or a great caboose. Anyway, they’re no longer Mr. & Mrs.

Pamela Anderson called Tommy Lee “T-Bone Steak.” Why? I don’t even want to go there. Figures she doesn’t either. That marriage also over.